


Truth, lies, and in between

by brittlestars



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pope in the pool, alcohol plus carpentry as a prescription for emotional constipation, foggy nelson could have been a butcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 14:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21339706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlestars/pseuds/brittlestars
Summary: Karen and Foggy build a safe room out of their fears. And also out of their hopes and out of the things they love. They build for people they love, even if they're not ready to talk yet.
Relationships: Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: Daredevil Bingo





	Truth, lies, and in between

On a hot, lazy afternoon when Fisk was a dark but formless shadow in the breeze and the muggy summer breeze itself refused to stir, Karen found a chill dusting over her skin, prickling hairs. That happened sometimes, when her attention was ripped away by an unexpected loud sound, or by the smell of dirty saltwater. Saltwater like had lapped placid against the mooring of the dim warehouse she'd been kidnapped to - and gotten herself away from - not that long ago. The smells had been blood and saltwater where she'd killed a man, not for the first time. 

She stroked her forearm, blinking away the unconscious shivers and attendant bad memories, and found herself wondering whether they should invest in a panic room. Glancing around the tiny office, she realized that on the Nelson & Murdock budget it'd be more of a panic half-closet. The thought was enough of a joke for the tiniest chagrined twitch to flutter across her lips, to bring her back to the time and place of boring paperwork, rather than a dank warehouse just a few miles away.

Over a stretch of hectic months, they all get kidnapped and/or hospitalized at least once. Karen's personal joke seems more reasonable with each passing emergency. A safe, hidden place wouldn't be a _bad_ idea. It could be practical, she reasons. She already ignores pointed looks from clients and potential clients regarding the huge medkit crammed above the kitchenette sink. 

She can't bring it up to Matt, of course. He'll just teeter off a cliff of guilt and then stumble back into the office three days later, more bruise than lawyer. 

When she finally decides to tell Foggy, the panic closet joke has become a vague plan, shape hammered into being in the anxious pits of the back of her mind. First, she needs to lure Foggy away from Matt's hearing. 

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" 

Foggy nods without looking up from his pile of paperwork. They've actually got a whole four simultaneous active cases at the moment. It's a record for the firm. 

She needs to be more specific. "We should go for a walk!" She tries. 

Now Foggy looks up. 

"It'll be fun!" Karen insists, already standing and grabbing her bag. 

Matt chimes in, "we're busy, Kare." 

"Please, I know this good Ethiopian restaurant..." 

Foggy narrows his eyes; Matt doesn't like Ethiopian food. He knows she knows that. And she knows he knows that she knows. Karen can almost see the gears turning in Foggy's brain. When her unspoken message clicks into place, Foggy sets down the paper in his hand. "C'mon, Matt," he wheedles, but gives up much sooner than is typical. "Well, fine, Ms. Page and I will go foraging together." 

By the time they pick up their takeout bags, Karen's given Foggy an overview of her idea. They eat on a bench in a small park, sun shining. Foggy gets through three napkin sketches of architectural plans before they agree that they probably should get back to Matt. They hash out a quick scheme for gathering building supplies and remember to change topics well before they're near the office. It helps that neither of them can remember whose turn it is to buy Matt's lunch, considering the man hardly ever eats without their direct intervention. 

Two weeks later, the day of the closet has arrived. They've got only 24 hours to build before Matt gets back. It seems too big of a task to Karen, but Foggy scoffs, launching into a story of his family's "borough-wide famous" woodworking prowess. This is how Karen learns that Foggy is a decent carpenter. 

"Even better when I'm drunk," Foggy admits, halfway to drunk already. They're splitting a bottle of what Foggy likes to call "commiseration tequila" and any self-respecting barfly would call "swill."

Karen, office manager that she is, doesn't think they can afford even this alcohol, but she doesn't comment. 

The mismatched lumber, slightly warped drywall, and bucket of nails were donated by a client. If they hadn't been, this project would have never made it past Foggy's admittedly meticulous back-of-the-napkin drawings. 

The latest iteration of the napkin is neatly arrayed on Karen's desk, which itself was shoved against the door to make room for the array of building materials. 

"How can you possibly be a better carpenter when you're drunk?" Karen goads, sensing a Foggy Nelson story incoming. Admittedly, they're her favorite kind of story: funny and heartfelt, reenacted with sweeping gestures and funny voices and possibly even a tiny bit of the truth. 

"I know what you're thinking, Ms. Page," Foggy begins, rubbing his palms together. Karen arches an eyebrow and tilts her shotglass, a mild and unimpressed 'go on' gesture. 

"And you are correct."

"Naturally," Karen says, setting down her glass and leaning toward him. 

He squints at her until he realizes she's not trying to steal his glass, only refill it, and then carries on as if her comments were but rude interruption. "I am certainly a better architect when sober. A better engineer when sober. The evidence is clear in my masterpiece. Behold!" He pats his pockets. 

She points to napkin on the tabletop behind Foggy. He blinks, turns around, and gestures grandly. "Behold!"

Karen can't help but chuckle. A Foggy smile is a thing of wonder. "Sit down before you hurt yourself," she chides, but his grin widens even further upon seeing her smile and she knows he's playing up the antics for the sake of fun. 

"Yea, yea," he grumbles good-naturedly before sitting down next to her again by the small pile of handtools on the floor. 

"My pops always says it's best to 'plan sober but follow through on the scary parts with the help of liquid courage.'" He raises his shotglass to her in a salute. "Who am I to argue with the wisdom of the elders?" 

"Building a closet is a scary plan?"

"I... may have neglected to talk about this particular renovation with Ms. Kravitz."

"Franklin Nelson, I cannot believe you're afraid of that sweet woman. You grew up in and live in Hell's Kitchen, you go to court against crooked cops and their mob bosses and you're bosom buddies with a devil-themed vigilante but all it takes is one Jewish landlady to drive you to 'liquid courage'?"

"First of all: Ms. Kravitz is meticulous when it comes to details. Meticulous and exacting. The only reason we get this place so cheap is because no one else wants to wade through her phonebook-sized rental contract." Karen rolls her eyes, ready to protest that Matt had asked her to liaison with Ms. Kravitz plenty of times, but Foggy just shakes his head and presses on. "Secondly... 'bosom buddies'?" 

She smirks. "You always slap your hand over my mouth when I talk about how you're clearly in love with Ma--"

Foggy slaps his hand over Karen's mouth. She glares at him, unblinking and unimpressed. Eventually, he pulls back his hand to slide it down his own face, pulling at the flesh of his booze-reddened cheeks. 

Karen settles into her drink, face challenging him to come to his own defense. He settles on a plea: "Can we just not talk about that?"

"I told you, he and Danny are upstate doing... chi-realignment or whatever. Claire double-checked the date with Luke for me before we started."

"Forgive me if I'm skeptical that he'd leave the city."

She shrugs. "You're going to have to own up to your feelings for him eventually."

"Today is not eventually."

"More of your dad's wisdom?"

"As it happens, yes. Now stop distracting me so I can show you the Nelson ways of whispering wood."

Their eyes meet and a beat later they're cackling with laughter. Eventually, tears leaking from his eyes, Foggy confesses "that wasn't my finest speech." Karen agrees and pours them both another drink. 

At some point the liquor runs low and they have nothing left to do but actually get to work. Thankfully, sober Foggy had already measured, checked, cut material for, and framed the tiny space. All that was left was to mount the drywall. Foggy lifts the first piece in place as Karen retrieves a hammer and the bucket of nails. 

"Here?" she asks, holding the first nail to the drywall. 

"Sure!" Foggy chirps. "Doesn't have to be perfect, s'long as you drive it into the stud - the vertical beam."

"I can't see the stud, Foggy."

Foggy is suddenly beside himself giggling. He doesn't meet Karen's eye. 

"What?"

"Ask me why you can't see the stud."

"Oh, for God's sake, Nelson, no drunk dad jokes."

"Because he's a ninja!"

Karen groans. "No, because the stud is behind the drywall, and drywall is opaque, unlike your love for our idiot."

'Our idiot' was their new name for Matt. It had been decided not long after the Heartfelt Reveal and subsequent Drunken Argument-Turned-Cathartic-Release. 

Karen interrupts Foggy to prevent him from thinking too long on that. "You are far too drunk for this. Just hold the thing still." Foggy nods, still grinning and murmuring about studs. 

Karen misses the nail head, dents the drywall, and curses. "Oh, fuck."

"A swing and a miss!" Foggy cheers. He drops the drywall section to brandish both arms like a baseball umpire. "You're out!"

"What happened to three strikes?"

Foggy pauses. "Oh, yeah."

Somehow they get the first piece of drywall installed without any further mishaps. Karen's unhappy about the dent around the first nail, but Foggy reassures her that "some spackle and sandpaper will buff it right out." Her heart glows warm at how insistent Foggy is that it will be fine. He really doesn't want her to feel bad about this project. 

Foggy reaches for the next section of drywall, consulting his napkin diagram. Karen tries to hand him the hammer, but he just shakes his head: no. 

"Next at bat we have Ms. Karen Page," Foggy begins, mimicking a radio announcer's voice. "Smart, beautiful, and determined, Ms. Page has a keen eye and-- ow!-- and a mean right hook. The nails are shaking in their... uh, nail bucket." She can't help but return his smile. She hefts the hammer. 

After each swing, Foggy lets out a curse, at first mimicking Karen's "Oh, fuck!" but soon devolving into increasingly silly mixed oaths like "heckin' heck," "my stars and garters," and "sweet Lincoln's mullet!"

As they work their way down the line of nails, Karen's having a hard time seeing through her tears of laughter. She imagines Foggy's dad teaching Foggy carpentry as a kid. His dad much have been a good teacher; Foggy certainly is. 

They name the nails after ex-boyfriends and money problems, acne and bad traffic and too-small shoes, but, as the walls grow, their hammer-targets eventually slide into fears, and then anger. The solid contact of each striking blow feels like control, like staking a small but concrete claim in a tumultuous and dangerous world. 

They alternate roles hammering and holding the nail bucket. The work goes quickly and smoothly until Foggy cheers "Devil take 'im!" after a fierce swing from Karen. They both fall silent. Sounds of the outside world filter through the open windows. The city is settling in for the night.

Foggy points at a nail. "That fucking costume. I hate it." Karen hands him the hammer, nods as it strikes.

She drives the next nail, "bringing fists to a gun fight," flat in just three blows. 

Foggy's turn again: "I'm not a doctor!"

Karen: "Smiling about pain."

Foggy: "Planning my best friend's funeral."

Karen: "Lying at the funeral."

They go through a lot of nails on anger at Matt. And then it morphs into fear for Matt. Fear for themselves and each other, yes, but mostly fear for Matt, and anger at that fear, and anger at Hell's Kitchen for existing in the kind of world that makes such a fear for one's friend necessary.

Karen is hunched, pulling at her hair. The safe room is taking shape. 

Foggy snatches the hammer from her hand, lines up three nails without hesitation. 

"I could--" slam! "--have been--" slam! "--a butcher!" Slam!

Foggy holds out his hand for another nail, but Karen pauses. "C'mon, Foggy, we both know you wouldn't have been satisfied being a butcher."

"Do we?"

"You wouldn't be helping the fair citizens of Hell's Kitchen, for one."

"Butchers can be helpful!"

Karen just levels her gaze. Foggy huffs. 

"Also, if you hadn't gone to law school, you'd've never met Matt."

"Right now I'm only sixty percent certain that's a net positive."

It's Karen's turn to sigh. "I keep telling myself I must have a reason for sticking around."

"Gee, thanks."

"You are part of that reason. If I'm honest, you both are. I don't really have any other place to go."

Foggy spreads his hands as if framing a picture. "Nelson & Murdock: we're your last resort."

Karen bats his hands down. "That's kind of my point: we help out everybody who doesn't have anybody else. Even if we do it from a shitty office. And that means something. In a world with people like Fisk, looking out for each other has to mean something."

"I thought being the optimist was my line."

"Maybe you're rubbing off on me. You both are."

"Don't let Matty hear you; it'll go to his head."

"Who ever thought lawyers would be cocky fuckers?"

"You know my brother's, like, twice as smart as me?"

Foggy misreads Karen's cringe as distaste at his false modesty, his self-debasement. He stumbles to clarify. "Theo gets to run the shop, though. We could only afford to send one Nelson to Columbia, and it was me. The practical joker, the hippie-haired outcast. The softy."

"Your family loves you! They're proud of you, Foggy."

"I don't mean 'outcast' as in kicked out of the family. That'd never happen," he acknowledges. "More like... I don't click with them, you know? They don't get the higher aspirations or whatever."

"Too Hell's Kitchen for Columbia, too Columbia for Hell's Kitchen?"

"I guess?"

"You know Matt feels the same way, right?"

Foggy sighs. "Probably."

For the next few minutes, they drink in silence. Then Karen reaches for the hammer. 

"Poverty. Secrets. Lies." She points to the head of three nails in turn. 

As she hammers, steady and fierce, Foggy ponders the situations that led them here. He wonders just how much was under their control, how much was random circumstance, hapless coincidence. Not for the first time, he thinks he's beginning to understand something of Matt's looking to God. 

"I'm not certain," Foggy says, "we're equipped to fight every socio-economic injustice that comes our way. But at least we have a fallback plan in hardware installation." 

"If I had a nail for every lie I'm going to have to tell on his behalf, even his anger wouldn't be enough to swing the hammer." Karen slams the hammer one last time, driving the final nail, 'lies,' into a crater in the wallboard.

Foggy grimaces. The ongoing lies are an area of the whole thing that Karen seems to understand instinctively, that Foggy didn't contemplate until that first moment when he froze in front of Karen, floundering for some cover story about a car accident. 

He falls back on his more natural defense: humor. "Sorry you didn't get the fun bosses."

"I hate when..." Karen says, passing him the hammer without eye contact, without a grin, "...I feel like I'm made for this, and I hate it. Every time I try to be someone else..."

"Life seems to have other plans."

She nods, eyes held down on her twisting fingers. Foggy waits patiently, rolling the hammer in his own hands, but Karen doesn't continue. Eventually she sighs, stands, smooths her skirt, and walks over to the kitchenette. Foggy hears the sound of the tap flowing, the clink of mugs. He looks at the safe room - the safety closet - nearly complete. Rows of nails gleam, dead and flat. As far as accomplishments go, it feels tiny. 

Karen returns a few moments later and Foggy tactfully doesn't mention the tear streaks that smudge under her eyes when she hands him a mug of tepid tap water. She sits next to him, leaning against the wall as they admire their handiwork in the dim orange light. 

Eventually, Karen asks, "What will we tell him?"

"Matt?"

She nods. 

Foggy shrugs. "Tell him it's a closet."

"A closet built on fears."

"No," Foggy shakes his head, "a closet built on hope."

They clink mugs in a silent toast.

Later that week, Foggy and Karen stay at the office well after work hours. Being together is the best they can do on the days when Matt's head snaps up and he runs out the door with barely a grunt of acknowledgment. 

Karen retrieves the emergency tequila bottle from the half-closet. "I can't say this thing makes me feel safe," she admits as her hand lingers on the closet door. "Not _safe_ but... safer anyway."

Foggy nods. He understands the distinction between safe and safer, safe-ish. Between Matt's idea of "being careful" and "taking care of himself" and any sane person's conceptualization of the same. 

"Also," Foggy admits, "Ms. Kravitz was right: It's kinda ugly." 

Karen grins, then shakes her head. "It is, but that's not the point. The point is that we're both amazing carpenters. And amazing architects and, and," her wide hand gesture encompasses the whole office, from the newly re-affixed Nelson & Murdock placard to Matt's office door, still ajar. "...amazing fixers-of-stuff."

"Yea," Foggy smiles, "we kind of are."

**Author's Note:**

> For the Daredevil bingo prompt "emergency rooms." I try not to take things too literally.


End file.
